


Nothing But a Man

by Memyselfandi142



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-02 13:24:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16787800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Memyselfandi142/pseuds/Memyselfandi142
Summary: Angel or Father, Friend or Phantom? Why does the night call her so? Wildly her mind beats against her, yet her soul sings only for him





	1. One

Buquet was dead. He’d hanged himself in the flys during the show. The alcohol you see, it does things to sad men. He just couldn’t go on.  
Christine considered the words that flew anxiously from Monsieur Andrés quivering form. Formally, she supposed, he had. And good riddance! His drunken fondling and lewd voyeurism of the ballet rats made Buquet’s death seem almost a relief. The investigation following the disastrous performance of Ill Muto was of course necessary in the eyes of the law. If the police were happy with that story and kept unnecessary paperwork off of the owners desks then they'd turn a blind eye to what everyone at the opera house knew really happened. 

The Opera Ghost had exacted revenge after his orders for the performance had been snubbed. Without Monsieur Lefevre's quiet obedience, the Opera Populaire had been swathed in chaos and terror. 

Deep down, Christine knew what the Phantom was capable of. Her childhood comfort had come out of the shadows, revealing something terrifying and new. His rage and pain shone clearly through his emerald eyes, frightening her with their intensity. Yet still inspiring her with their undeniable beauty. 

She scolded herself at first. She should be repulsed, not only by his actions but by what she saw underneath the mask before being roughly shoved away. The raised, scarred skin that puckered and pitted in some areas, causing his eyelid to droop, the redness caused by wearing the porcelain mask over the sensitive area making it all the worse. But even when Christine had laid eyes on the deformed side of his face, her initial reaction wasn't disgust: it was curiosity. Her fingers itched to run along the sunken skin of his cheek and feel the rough patches beneath her smooth fingers, relieving the ache of skin rubbed raw. 

But he'd pushed her, rage spinning him away from her and wrecking the dreamy state of the grotto they'd been in, his home under the opera. 

Rage that had now killed a man she'd known since her stay at the opera had begun. 

She was appalled by his newest action; loosing backdrops and riling up the managers were small infractions when compared to this. He had to be reigned in before more “accidents” happened and the police decided to dig deeper into the myth of the Opera Ghost. 

Raoul found her during the pandemonium following the discovery of Buquets body and had tried to convince her to leave with him. 

“Christine, you’re unwell. You've convinced yourself of a myth and I'm not going to stand by while you work yourself up like this. Come stay with me, give yourself time away from this mess.” His hand encircled hers and he gazed imploringly into her eyes, tugging her gently in the direction of the stables. But she shook him off. 

“No Raoul, I must stay here. If he finds out I left there's no telling what he’d do next. At least when I’m here I'm certain everyone is safe and he’s not found.”  
Raoul rolled his eyes and reached for her hand again.  
“Lottie you have to see reason. The Phantom of the Opera is there, inside your mind,” he gently tapped her temple, his dismissive tone doing nothing but upsetting Christine.  
“I will not be spoken down to Raoul. You seem to forget that I am no longer a child.”

At that she pushed into Carlotta's dressing room and locked the door behind her.  
Raoul pounded on the door for a while, eventually giving up and walking away.  
Christine breathed a sigh to collect herself and began undoing the many fixings of her Countess dress. Breathing deeply after removing her corset, she was able to ponder about what she had to do next. She knew she had to find him and confront him about his actions towards her and the opera house. But the thought of trekking down into the bowels of his domain and confronting the masked creature brought a shiver down her spine. 

What if he'd become completely unhinged? What caused a man to kill? She knew he'd never purposefully hurt her but she also didn't know what state of mind he'd be in. Christine also knew however that she needed to see him again.

Remembering the cold journey to his lair, she pulled a thick woollen nightgown over her chemise and slid a pair of slippers over her feet. The mirror was still and silent, set in its place in the wall, causing Christine to pause. Her Angel, turned Phantom was a great magician and had whisked her under the opera house, leaving her in a dreamlike trance the whole way. She’d been to entranced to see how he’d opened the mirror or evaded all of the traps built to protect him and his home.  
She ran her fingers along the edge of the mirrors frame, all the way down to the bottom and all around the intricate carvings, searching for a button or notch out of place.  
Her search was made fruitful by the tiny indent in the wall, flush with the frame of the mirror. It was almost indistinguishable, she knew she wouldn't have found it if she hadn't been looking. 

As she fiddled with her discovery, the mirror popped silently out of place and slid slightly open. She jubilation was soured by the realization that she had in fact sealed her fate. She knew now that there was no way she could turn around and forget her quest to find the Phantom and drive herself away from his undeniable monstrosity. 

She took pause when a small inkling of a thought entered her mind. As a child, entranced by her father's promise of an angel, shed thought of him as ethereal, not of this earth. More than human. And after, while he terrorized the Populaire, she like so many others feared him as a ghost, a monster. Less than human.  
“We have all been blind,” she breathed. 

“He is nothing but a man.”

Christine steeled herself against the blast of stale air wafting out of the corridor, and stepped past the mirror.


	2. Chapter 2

Hours after the chaos had died down, the Opera Populaire was still and silent. The ballet rats were all asleep in their cots, Madame Giry threatening a rigorous day to follow. Carlotta was in her private rooms, sobbing into Ubaldo's chest for her humiliation as he patted her shoulder, wishing only to be dismissed to bed after the exciting events of the evening. The set had been taken down alongside the body of the departed, all evidence of the night before had been swept away, leaving a pristine canvas for the next performance. 

Far beneath the stillness of the Opera house, too far beneath the stone and tar to be heard, Erik slammed his fists onto the ivory of his pipe organ.

His protege, what must she think of him? Could he justify murdering someone, even as lecherous as Buquet? 

In his blind rage, there had been no question. His realm, his Opera house was being invaded by these imbeciles. How was he to react but to retaliate? His need for perfection, his need for order and respect was being ignored. 

Was he not a reasonable ghost? His only desire was to see his theatre flourish. And with Carlotta's voice and disposition being what it was, he thought it best to replace her. It was well known within the Populaire that Carlotta was seasons past her prime, who better to take her place than Christine? His demands were simple; give the lead role to the rightful Prima Donna, and allow him, her teacher, a good view to share in her triumph. 

And the boy, the Vicomte, had been in his box once again. And Carlotta was flouncing around clad as the Countess, piercing his eardrums with her farse of a voice. Erik considered his manipulation of her soothing spray a favour to the audience. 

And Buquet. That fat, greasy pig of a man. Had he not been spying over the ballets dressing area, Erik would have gone unnoticed as he switched Carlotta's potion bottle with one of his own concoctions. As Erik fled, Buquet pursued him, brandishing a knife and the stench of rum on his breath. 

Erik knew that what he'd done could be argued as self defence. He'd killed Joseph Buquet only after being threatened with bodily harm. Hanging him from the flys for all the audience and cast members to see was definitely a spur of the moment decision, only to make good on his promise of a disaster. 

But Christine. 

She had once appraised him an angel, looking to him for guidance and support after the death of her father. As her angel behind the wall he taught her many things, including improving her knowledge of the French language, unfamiliar to her at the time, and helping her voice blossom into the Masterpiece it now was. Knowing that no one else would give her the time of day, he used her as his mouthpiece, his protege. And at first that's all she was to him. Her childlike reverence provided him with something he'd never had before; the feeling of acceptance. And he glutted himself of it. Years of loneliness cured by this little cherub. As she grew, he had to come to terms with the fact that his feelings for her grew as well. Would she revile him as the same angel now? Did he dare hope that her feelings for him could ever match his feelings for her?

During the pandemonium after the performance, he sought her out, hoping to explain his actions, though never daring to hope she would understand. 

Shed run and slipped away into the crowd so fast he couldn't make out where she'd gone.  
He would not dare assume she were simple enough to forgive him for his heinous act. Angel indeed.

His love for her was doomed to be unrequited. He might as well get used to that fact now, however painful it may be.

Erik pressed the wound on his shoulder, relishing in the distracting pain and staunching the small yet steady flow of blood that Buquet had started during their scuffle in the flys. Thankfully the drunkard had only nicked him, hardly enough to warrant more than a bandage. 

As he sauntered towards his water closet to find his stash of bandages and things of the like, he heard a faint, faraway sound. As it was, so far below the opera, the only sound he was accustomed to in his home were sounds that he made; his music, his singing, and the occasional roar of whatever emotion he was overwhelmed by. There was no possible way for there to be unfamiliar noise down in the Labyrinth of his home, unless it was made by someone unfamiliar.

Someone was there. 

And how it frightened him.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, thanks for the read. Not sure when I'll be updating but I definitely plan on continuing. Just a few things to keep in mind whilst reading; I love the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical and movie, I'll be drawing inspiration from both. This is my first work, any and all constructive criticism is appreciated. I'm also relatively new to this site so please forgive any formatting errors


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